


Mania

by thebearking



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gender-neutral Reader, Graphic description of BFRB, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Self-Harm, Trichotillomania, minor self-harm tho it's just hair-pulling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:17:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7491264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebearking/pseuds/thebearking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have trichotillomania and Bucky tries to help in any way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mania

**Author's Note:**

> so i myself suffer from trichotillomania (an obsessive compulsive disorder which makes me want to pull out my hair) and i wrote this to cope. i wrote this reader as having my kind of trichotillomania which has no particular trigger and is focused around my legs. gender-neutral reader.

It happened without you even realizing it. Whether you were on the couch or in bed or stretching before a workout, your hands would inevitably drift to your legs, your fingernails scraping over the skin and tugging pedantically until the hair sprang free with a satisfying sting. You wouldn’t even register what you had done until you saw the hair with your own eyes. Your hands had a mind of their own, roaming over your legs with malintent. You couldn’t stop them. It was an impulse. An instinct. And it scared the hell out of you.

Bucky noticed it eventually. You were sitting on the couch next to him, and he caught a flicker of movement in his peripherals. When he turned and saw you fiddling with the skin around your ankle, his brow furrowed. “Babe, what are you doing?” he asked. You froze, whipping around toward your boyfriend with a frightened look. Shamefully, you let your hands fall to your lap, feeling the burn of his stare as he looked over your legs and saw the scabs, the scars, all made by your own hand. “Baby, what’s going on? Are you O.K.?”

You avoided looking at him, and he paused the film, turning to face you. “Sweetheart, you know you can talk to me about anything right?” You felt his fingers graze your jaw; you allowed him to turn your face to his, but your eyes remained fixated on your hands, fisted on your lap. “What’s wrong?”

Your eyes were brimming with tears when you answered. “I can’t help it,” you rasped, your chest tight with sobs. Your shoulders were trembling; Bucky reached over to pull you into his lap, his arms encircling you protectively while you cried into his shirt. “I can’t stop myself. It just happens and I hate it and I know it’s bad but I can’t _stop_ , Buck, I can’t.”

Bucky brought one hand up to stroke your hair, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. “It’s O.K., baby, it’s O.K. We can get through this. You can do this. I know you can.” He squeezed your shoulder, pulling a back a little to look at you. The sight of your tear-streaked face was almost physically painful. “What helps? What can I do?”

You sniffed loudly, wiping your sleeve over your running nose. “I-I don’t know. Nothing seems to work. I tried wearing mittens but it’s just impractical. I tried busying my hands but I don’t know what triggers me. I shave my legs and the feeling of stubble just makes the urge even stronger. I tried getting my friends and family to call me out on it when I do it, but it just makes me feel worse.” You leaned your head against Bucky’s shoulder. “I just don’t know what to do anymore, Buck.”

Bucky’s heart ached at how hopeless you sounded. “We’ll figure it out, baby. If you need anything from me, all ya gotta do is ask. Maybe we just need to keep your hands busy.”

You shot him a withering look at his suggestive words. “Not funny,” you deadpanned, but the humor in your eyes betrayed you.

He grinned and lay down, pulling you over him. “Nap with me, doll. Just relax. I gotcha.”

You turned to rest your cheek on his chest, your legs tangling with his, and closed your eyes, wondering what supreme being you must have pleased to deserve someone as great as Bucky.

* * *

You were on the couch, watching a documentary on the migration of gray whales. Bucky sat by the armrest next to you, nursing a bruised eye from the last mission. You had emerged relatively unscathed, at Bucky’s expense, walking away with just a few scrapes. You felt bad seeing him now with an ice pack held to the left side of his face.

In your mental reflection, you hadn’t noticed your hands rubbing up and down your calves, feeling for the stubble beneath. You exhaled deeply, gritting your teeth. Not this again. For the last week you hadn’t pulled as many hairs as usual; Bucky simply grasped your hands whenever he saw you reach for your legs and kissed them sweetly, sometimes rubbing them playfully against his stubbly cheeks. It helped, but he couldn’t pay attention forever, and so you still pulled. Now, he saw you struggling, and since he couldn’t grab your wrists as usual, he tried a different tactic.

Your eyes were trained on the television screen when you felt a weight on your lap, and your hands flew up instinctively. You looked down to see Bucky lying on his back with his head resting on your thighs. His eyes were closed, the ice pack balanced precariously on his face. You adjusted it until it was steady, then combed his hair away from his forehead. It had grown quite long in the past few months that you’d been together, nearly past his shoulders and long enough to pull into a bun, and you loved every inch of it. When you retracted your hands from his hair, he surprised you with a whine.

“Keep doing that, doll,” he muttered without opening his eyes. “Feels good.”

You blinked down at him. When you hesitated, he pushed his head into your palm, making you laugh. “Alright, alright, I’m going.” You ran your fingers through his hair, letting your nails skim his scalp with the slightest pressure. He hummed appreciatively, the lines in his face softening despite the bruising around his eye. “This good?”

“Better than good, doll,” he mumbled, reaching up to take one of your hands and press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then to your palm, his lips and unshaven chin tickling the skin there. “It’s perfect.”

You smiled. As you continued to play with his hair, running your fingers through it and even combing out the tangles, it became instinctual, to the point where you could watch the documentary without having to watch where your fingers moved. The urge to to pick at your legs was still there, but you would never harm a hair on Bucky’s head, and with your hands carding through his silky locks, you were effectively too busy to pluck.

You sighed, slouching into the couch cushion, your hands slowing in Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s breathing had slowed, too, as he drifted into sleep. You were about to follow suit, and you had never felt more relaxed.


End file.
